It's Time to Stop and Smell the Roses

Whew, just a month and a half ago, I was celebrating a new job and spring and music and life . . . then, like for so many others, everything went awry.

The loss of America’s largest and most productive wetlands and the devastating impact of the deepwater oil rig explosion on thousands of workers, residents, and families have become a palpable weight on my heart, my brain, my spirit. It’s hard to think or feel outside of this box.

But, in truth, I am relatively unscathed by this event. I may be inconvenienced, but my life hasn’t really changed. My anger and frustration are symptoms of “the caregiver syndrome” – not having answers and solutions, not being able to “make things better.” So, for me, it should be a predictable cost of doing business. I say this to convince myself. I can’t implode. If there’s a possibility of helping someone with real problems, I can’t get mired in my own sorry self.

So, this weekend, I took a fresh look at my world (while I was cutting the grass that hadn’t been tamed for two weeks). My neighbor cut my front lawn. My roses are still blooming. The grass feels good under my bare feet. My husband, my heart, listened to me for hours and sent me an email message – quoting The Little Prince. My grandson has 6 teeth and is still the most delightful gift in my lifetime. My dumb little Lhasa still makes me laugh out loud.

As shallow or mundane as this may seem, it helped me regain some semblance of perspective so that I can – maybe – fulfill my mission, or at least continue on the path.

Life could be vastly improved if we could count our blessings as self-actualizing people can and do, and if we could retain their constant sense of good fortune and gratitude for it.

- Abraham Maslow

Courage is not the absence of despair; it is, rather, the capacity to move ahead in spite of despair.

- Rollo May

PARADISE LOST

It’s only beginning. I know this. I don’t know (no one knows) how to deal with the long-term – the likelihood that a substantial part of Louisiana will physically disappear, and with it, the culture, industry, wildlife . . . no, I can’t deal with this.

But, daily, I “deal” with people who are immediately impacted – the real victims in this awful disaster. The people who won’t be able to come back or rebuild because the land and waters they live and work on have been taken away. I watch CNN and MSNBC, but rarely do their reports provide more than an underwater view of the oil “spill” – the rest is redundancy.

And, in our frenetic response to the oil, we’ve all but forgotten about the individuals who were on the rig, and their families. The dead and permanently damaged humans who were on the front line - the first tier of those impacted by this “incident.”

Tonight my husband (of 30 years) and I spoke briefly about the need for mental health/grief counseling – including counseling for the counselors. My beloved observed that, since the Deepwater Horizon BP Oil Disaster, "you've been drinking more, and you've been angry." My response was “I haven’t had time to drink more, but I sure as hell am angry.”

Finding the center of strength within ourselves is, in the long run, the best contribution we can make to our fellow men.

- Rollo May

Beached

Grand Isle, the Cajun Bahamas, only six square miles of land. Grand Isle, safe haven for Pirate Jean Lafitte. Grand Isle, the last populated Louisiana barrier island, first inhabited in the 1700’s. Grand Isle, home to 1,600 permanent residents. Grand Isle, at the edge of America’s largest and most productive estuary system.

Although Louisiana’s beaches don’t compare with the white sands of Florida, Grand Isle offers the comfort of family. It’s a community that has maintained its identity and integrity; that stubbornly refuses to succumb to adversity or commercialization. I hadn’t visited Grand Isle for nearly 45 years - until this year. This is my second visit in two weeks. I should be walking on the beach, playing in the surf. . .

But, this year is different. The beaches are closed. A stench fills the air. Commercial and charter fishing has been shut down. The community is besieged by media, transient workers, military, government and industry forces. The absence of children is noticeable. 2010 will not be remembered for its celebrations, fishing rodeos, its hurricanes, or the economic recovery that seemed so close. This is the year of the Deepwater Horizon BP oil catastrophe.

There won’t be family gatherings or picnics on the beach this Memorial Day. There won’t be shrimp or crab boils. Will it be any better for the 4th of July? Labor Day?

Hurricane season, starting June 1, will demand more than the usual wariness. This year, plumes of oil, mixed with chemical dispersant, pose a toxic threat. Even a minor disturbance in the Gulf . . . there’s no way to prepare this year.

But, here I am in my "official capacity" as a Business Continuity Consultant – with two listening ears and a shoulder to cry on, a smidgeon of common sense and a tad of technical assistance to offer. Somehow, it doesn’t seem like it’s going to be enough.

Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to get better. It’s not.

- Dr. Seuss

Other Voices

The other voices I've been listening to these past weeks belong to commercial fishermen, deckhands, property owners and small business owners whose lives have been turned inside out by the Deepwater BP Oil disaster. Hard to wax romantic.

So, when I received this anonymous e-mail comment regarding my blog, I was amused inspite of the writer's apparent sarcasm. And, for a brief moment I stopped thinking about the inadequacy and ineptitude of the response to oil gushing into the Gulf.

(Thanks, Anonymous. I must admit I've never had so many other voices conversing at one time in my head. )

But then Victor Hugo asked, "Ou est ma chapeau?" Tillich responded, "What child of six has not asked himself the question 'where do I fit in to the totality of cosmic reality?'" To which Kris Kristofferson asked "Why me Lord?" To which I respond "Twas brillig in the slithey toves and Jesus loves me this I know." To which someone said "Silly rabbit!"

Anonymous

Make a Joyful Noise!

Jazz Fest weekend! New Orleans is saturated with sound - sensory overload! I end my day listening to classical music, unwinding, when the Cambridge Singers rush through airwaves into my living room. I'm overwhelmed. Tonight, I salute the masters of music, inspired at this hour by

When Mary Through the Garden Went by Sir Charles Villiers Stanford.

My God, what sweet sounds -
the choir’s timbre, voices
too pure to be mortal, these
unseen waves, sonic vibrations -
scintillating ephemeral
glimpses of the Spirit
formed by human lips
from the depth of human hearts.

The artist transfers a vision
from his mind’s eye
to canvas or clay,
using colors and textures
with masterful command
to create a tangible, tactile,
temporal object to hold
and behold. . .

Dancers leap and sway,
moving to the rhythms
and currents of musical scores,
creating visual expressions
of lyrical themes,
the pageantry of passion, life,
and death intersecting space
leaving no trace. . .

Ah, but, the composer’s gift
mystifies me most -
bringing order to the cacophony,
capturing and combining airs,
from inside his head, translating,
then encoding melody, harmony,
and tempo for other voices -
a sorcerer-magician whose
work exists in ether.

Try to remain with a feeling and see what happens. You will find it amazingly difficult. Your mind will not leave the feeling alone; it comes rushing in with its remembrances, its associations, its do’s and don’ts, its everlasting chatter. Pick up a piece of shell. Can you look at it, wonder at its delicate beauty, without saying how pretty it is, or what animal made it? Can you look without the movement of the mind? Can you live with the feeling without the word, without the feeling that the word brings up? If you can, then you will discover an extraordinary thing, a movement beyond the measure of time, a spring that knows no summer.

J. Krishnamurti, Commentaries on Living

Untitled

My soul is one
with the sun and sky,
the wind and mother sea.
My ancestors’ souls
intertwine with mine
beyond the galaxy.

How blessed I am
to have this time
to feel the sun’s warm rays,
the wind’s soft breath,
the sea’s salt waves,
on endless summer days.

I see my parents
and hold their hands,
in loving memories.
I’m thankful for
this mortal taste
of God’s Infinity.

We can speak without voice to the trees and the clouds and the waves of the sea. Without words they respond through rustling of leaves and the moving of clouds and the murmuring of the sea.

- Paul Tillich

A Gentle Awakening

After an unusually severe winter, Spring has arrived; not suddenly or abruptly with the turning of the calendar or the change to daylight saving time. No, Spring slipped in – as is her habit - softly, delicately.

As the days gradually grow longer and the temperature tiptoes toward lukewarm, the leaf buds on the oak appear - only the size of a squirrel’s ear at first. Clover blankets the still dormant lawn. A patch of sweet peas volunteer, seeded by last year’s vines, to bedeck the lattice fence behind the statue of St. Francis with pale green foliage and fragrant lavender blooms. The bulbs I planted in February pierce the soil with their slender blades – some will be daffodils, but I can’t remember what else I chose for the patio.

The azaleas show new leaves, but, within weeks, their greenery becomes obscured by pink and white blossoms. Over the course of the same weeks, I remove the remains of potted avocados and other casualties of winter, and trim back the ginger lilies and the banana that was a gift from a St. Louis guest. I place tiny begonias, petunias and impatiens in the planters and hanging baskets. The roses awaken, their new foliage almost wine-red, gradually moving across the color wheel to shades of green. The wisteria, still without leaves, fills vacant branches with cascades of sweet-scented blooms.

This Spring, we take measures of other subtle changes. Over the past three months, my grandson has mastered the arts of crawling, standing alone and walking. His first teeth emerge and give new character to his smile. He celebrates his first birthday in City Park’s Storyland. For myself, a long-awaited-not-entirely-new job moves me from the ranks of self-employed; it is my first full-time employment (with benefits) in over a decade. This change is imperceptible to the clients with whom I work.

As I rake the leaves for the last time, and dust off the lawn mower, I realize how precious these days are and how much I will miss Spring when she steps aside for Summer to take her place.

The sacred is in the ordinary, in one’s daily life, in one’s neighbors, friends and family, in one’s backyard.

- Abraham Maslow